


Blade Dance

by misura



Category: Sword Song - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Crossdressing, F/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-17 08:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14829287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: In which Rafn Cedricson introduces himself to Angharad by challenging her to a practice fight.





	Blade Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chantefable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/gifts).



_Clang!_

Clearly, Rafn Cedricson did not believe in holding back - even when he was only having a bit of fun with a beardless stranger under the guise of offering a lesson in swordsmanship.

Judging by the audience, either her disguise had not been as effective as she'd hoped, or the Chief's popularity was such that people thronged at the chance to see him bite the dust. Not that there seemed much chance of that last option: Gwyn had done his best to teach her, but he'd only been a herdsman, not a professional warrior and besides, she'd known better than to acquire an actual sword.

_Clang!_

Perhaps she ought to have asked Bjarni after all, at the risk of wounding that fragile pride of his. He'd been so eager to offer her protection, though, and so earnest and serious about providing it, particularly once he'd found out about the villagers - it had seemed borderline cruel to suggest she might learn to protect herself, thereby reducing his role to that of hunter/farmhand and jack of all trades.

Then again, he _had_ given her her sword, and a beauty it was, too. _"From the hands of one lady into another,"_ he had said, which had puzzled her, given that Bjarni Sigurdson was most assuredly no lady.

Thus, later that evening, the tale of the Lady Aud, whom men called the Deep-Thinking.

_Clang!_

Her right arm felt about ready to fall off. She wished it would: a limb no longer there would hardly cause her this much discomfort.

"Good show!" Rafn said, grinning. He could afford to, of course; she'd hardly been able to touch him at all. "Not bad for a beardless youth! At least you've got spirit."

What she had was a strong desire for some privacy, a hot bath, and someone to scrub her back.

Assuming he'd bought her disguise, Rafn was unlikely to offer that last one, though she might be mistaken in her reading of him. He'd seemed happy enough to see Bjarni, in that gruff way of men in authority reluctant to show weakness in front of others.

"Some food, I think," Rafn said.

The show over, the crowd was dispersing, apart from a few she suspected to be Rafn's hearth companions. There was an air of amused resignation about them, the occasional exchange of fond, exasperated looks. Their Chief had gone off and gotten himself into a situation again, volunteering to teach a young one the blade, and what was there to do for them but grin and bear it?

"Any chance of a bath?" she asked, sheathing the blade as Bjarni had shown her, wiping it clean first, even though she doubted a few specks of dirt would be able to dull the edge in any noticeable way.

Rafn shot her a look that might have been suspicion. Bjarni had seen no harm in bathing, though she couldn't recall any occasion on which he'd indicated a specific desire for a large tub of hot water.

"Something can be arranged, I'm sure," Rafn said comfortably.

Of course, he wouldn't be the one heating the water and carrying it.

 

Quite when she'd fallen in love (or possibly simple lust) with Gwyn, she could no longer recall. He'd been a fixture in her life practically since birth - respected by her father, though not loved the way her mother had been.

He'd always had time for her, a kind word, a smile. Things with the villagers had not been quite so bad as they got after her father's death, but there nevertheless was a distance there. A sense that, if she were to signal interest in any of the boys her age, she would lose what little friendship she had built with the girls. They came to her for cures, sometimes, and for solutions to inconvenient problems that occurred when a boy was thoughtless or a girl careless.

Gwyn had been safe, though. Hers, or at least her family's. No one else had had their sights or hearts set on Gwyn.

Even now, she didn't know if her father would have consented to a marriage, or if she'd have been interested in such an official arrangement. She'd had only the vaguest sense of her own desires - enough to recognize that Gwyn did not reciprocate them, at least at first.

There had been a few bad days, moments when she'd been convinced the only person who would ever want her that way (whichever way that was) must be Rhywallan, who made her feel dirty merely by looking at her. As time passed, though, her body had changed from that of a girl into that of a young woman - and the way Gwyn looked at her had changed from that of a man reluctant to wound to that of a man seeing something desirable.

Seeing that same look appear on the face of Rafn Cedricson felt very good.

Returning it while taking off her clothes and not seeing it drop as she revealed her true gender felt even better - though not quite so good as what came after.

 

Bjarni, predictably, didn't like it.

Bjarni had saved her life in keeping her from going back to the farm once it had been set on fire, and possibly a few times before and after. Naturally, if she hadn't nursed him back to health after his shipwreck-that-turned-out-not-to-be-one, he would have been in no position to do so.

Thus, if any debts existed between them, they must go both ways.

"If you wish us to part ways, I'll be sorry to see you go." Not so sorry that she'd stop spending the night at the Hearth Hall - which was the problem, of course, or rather: it was Bjarni's problem.

"I suppose I'd rather share you than not have you at all," Bjarni said, with poor grace.

He was, she reminded herself, still very young. She suspected she'd been his first, and being a man, he naturally confused protectiveness with possessiveness. They hadn't spoken much on the way to Rafnglas, finding other ways to reassure one another that they still lived, but she imagined that he might have entertained fantasies of making her his wife.

Quite how he would have accomplished that feat with her dressed as a boy was a question unlikely to have entered his head. Perhaps he'd imagined she would start wearing dresses exclusively, once safe.

"Whereas me, I prefer sharing." Rafn had reminded her of Gwyn, a little. Experienced, slow and sure-handed love-making, knowledgeable of the many ways in which a man's and woman's body might please one another. He'd been a bit rougher, perhaps, a bit less careful.

Gwyn's love-making had felt like an extension of the closeness that had always existed between them, expressed via hugs and smiles first. Rafn's had felt more like a beginning, the first exploration of what might grow between the two of them.

By comparison, Bjarni lacked experience, knowledge. Patience. He made up for it with enthusiasm and was for the most part not unwilling to learn. A work in progress, where Gwyn and Rafn had been fully formed already.

"That's easy for you to say," Bjarni said, magnificently unaware of the fact that his five-year absence had turned him into the sort of young man girls would discuss among themselves, so long as they were sure not to be overheard.

It would, perhaps, be kind to improve his perception. She might make some discreet inquiries, select someone she judged suitable and introduce her to Bjarni, never mind the silliness of the new-come stranger introducing the returned local legend to a girl he'd likely as not encountered (and roundly ignored) many dozens of times.

To be sure, the matter would require some careful thought.


End file.
